dirty water

joshua patterson

The day I hit my dad started like any other. I woke up that morning to the familiar creak of the rocking chair on the front porch. The sun burst through the wooden planks nailed to my window. Worn newspapers lined the creases of the windowsill. I got up to peek through the boards and saw him sitting there.

Dad’s face and clothes were covered in dirt and dust. On his right knee was a bottle of what Momma called “Dirty Water.” He drank the dirty water all day long, only stopping to eat or open another bottle. He got mean when he drank it a lot, probably because dirty water didn’t taste very good, but Momma said it made him feel better.

When the Dust Monster came, Dad couldn’t work on the farm. Our house sat on a large wheat farm that flowed with rows of amber grain. When the wind blew, it sounded like a rushing river. He and I would sit for hours outside on our rocking chairs and listen to the rustling. He used to make me go with him and help cut down the wheat during the harvest. Even though it was hard, I still miss it. He used to joke with me and play hide and seek in the field. After the dust monster came for the first time, everything changed. The wheat died, then the grass, and eventually it all became covered in dust. It was an empty brown desert.

I watched him rock and look out into the nothing. Wind flowed through his stringy hair, making dust and dirt stream off like a cloud. Suddenly, he looked over, then came inside.

“Mary Anne, Jed, dust’s coming!”  Dad said.

I came out of my room, just as Momma came out of hers. We sat in the middle of the house, away from all the windows, so the dust monster couldn’t see us. Momma pulled me close and spoke softly into my ear.

“It’s gonna be okay, Baby. The dust monster can’t hurt us while we’re in here.”

“Woman, stop babyin’ that boy. He’s eight years old,” Dad said.

“Don’t worry about him, Jed. Momma’s gonna protect you,” she said.

Before long, I heard the screams of the monster. It pushed and shook the house, trying to get inside. Dad was up against the door, holding it shut. Dust swirled as it came in from the exposed cracks in the doorframe. The windows rattled and creaked like someone banging and scratching to get in. I put my face into Momma’s chest and closed my eyes, waiting for it to go away. She pulled me close to her and rubbed my head. A few minutes later, the rattling stopped. Except for the sound of our breaths, it was quiet. Dad didn’t say a word. He got up and walked out of the door. I heard his feet stomp across the wooden porch, then out into the dirt, and back across the wood. A thud. Then the rocking started back up.

“You want some breakfast, Baby?”

“Yes, Momma,” I said, heart still pounding.

I clung to her side as she cracked an egg onto a pan on the stove.

“Momma?”

“Yes, Baby?”

“Is Daddy going to town today?”

“Not today, honey”

My heart sank and I sighed. She rolled up the sleeves of her milk-colored nightgown so she didn’t get them dirty while she cooked. A few large bruises colored her arms.

“What happened?”

She turned and looked at me and then at her arm. She rolled her sleeve back down to her wrists.

“Can you go tell your father that breakfast is almost ready?”

“Yes, Momma,” I said.

I’d seen my dad hit Momma once when he thought I wasn’t looking. Momma didn’t yell or hit him back. She just cried. I walked over to the front door. When I got there, I took a deep breath, and twisted the rusty, brass knob. He was still rocking. The bottle of dirty water sat on the planks beside him. His head was firmly resting on the palms of his dusty hands. He sniffled and wiped his face. I took a step out. The wood creaked underfoot. His head snapped violently towards me. He inhaled hard through his congested nose, coughed, then spit a glob onto the dirt. His eyes were red and swollen like a bee had stung him. I couldn’t tell if he was crying or if the dust was just in his eyes.

“What is it, Jed?” he asked softly.

“Momma told me to come get you for breakfast.”

“Gimme a minute,” he said, clearing his throat.

I ran back inside to Momma’s hip. She told me to sit at the table. After a couple of minutes, I heard Dad come in. His boots thudded like thunder as he walked through the house. The smell of the dirty water followed him. I looked at his face as he sat down opposite me. His pale skin was so dirty, his lips were almost black. His face was skinny and bony. The whites of his eyes shone with a red glisten. His pupils were dark; black that burned like fire when the sun hit them. His hair was thin and messy. A cloud of dust puffed off him whenever he moved, leaving the trail of a shadow behind him.

Momma made each of us a plate of eggs and bread, then fixed one for herself. Once she sat down, Dad bowed his head. They both closed their eyes. I never closed my eyes. In the darkness, the monsters and bad people came. Instead, I sat and stared at him.

“Let’s bow our heads,” he said. “Lord God, we pray for this food, and the hands that made it. We pray that the dust would come to an end, but the liquor wouldn’t. Amen,” He chuckled. Momma hit him softly on the arm.

“Harvey Hunch, you quit that right now.”

Dad looked at her and laughed. Even Momma let out a giggle.

Dad ate loudly, slurping up the egg yolk, and dipping his bread in it. I took little bites at a time. I didn’t really like eggs, but it was all we had. As soon as he finished his food he went back to the porch. That was where he would be until it got dark. While he was outside, Momma would teach me. Unlike Dad, Momma could read and write. She was smart. She taught me my letters and numbers and was teaching me how to write.

I loved to write stories. I wrote about knights in great, big castles, overlooking bright green fields of grass. When the dark came, the knights would fight the monsters attacking their home. They rescued the princesses from the bad men and took care of them. I wished I could be like the knights. Before the dust, Dad whittled me my very own knight’s sword out of an old broom handle. I practiced with it every day. I hit fence posts and chair legs, and sometimes Momma even let me smash Dad’s empty bottles of dirty water. I loved my sword. It made me feel safe. It sat right by my bed just in case the monsters came, so I could protect Momma.

I learned and played until it was time for dinner. I brought my sword to the table. I heard Dad open the door and come inside. He couldn’t walk straight, and used the walls to keep him balanced. I smelled the dirty water as soon as he came into the kitchen. It was so strong I almost threw up. He dropped into his seat and rested his head on the table. He looked up and his eyes met mine.

“Get the stick off the table, boy. Now.”

“Daddy, it’s my sword.”

“Don’t make me come over there, boy! Get it off my table now.”

“Yes, Daddy,” I said.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, sir.”

He took a large gulp of the dirty water. His face squished like he ate a lemon. He slammed the bottle on the table and I jumped out of my seat. He rested his head in his hands. No one said anything the entire time we ate dinner. Momma made pork and beans, which was his favorite. He didn’t even say thank you. When we finished, they sent me off to bed.

“Momma, I’m scared. Can you sleep with me tonight?”

“Your Momma’s with me tonight,” Dad said

“Maybe tomorrow night,” Momma said quietly. “Goodnight, my sweet baby boy.”

“Goodnight, Momma.”

I walked slowly to my room and slid under the covers, still clutching my sword. My heart was beating out of my chest. It was already pitch black in my room, but it was made even darker when the light from the kitchen that peeked under my doorframe went out. I never liked closing my eyes to sleep. I stayed perfectly still and stared, unblinking, into the black. After my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, I saw a shadow move across the room from right to left. It happened again. I bit my lip and stayed quiet. The wind picked up outside, whistling. Breathing heavily, I put my blanket over my head. My eyelids were heavy and before long, they closed as if someone pulled them down.

Dad was sitting out on the porch. It was sunny and warm. The smell of a fresh baked cherry pie filled my nose. He had a stick in one hand and his knife in the other. He whittled while he rocked in the chair. I couldn’t tell what he was making. He looked up at me and smiled, a smile I hadn’t seen in years. Then he nodded at me to come closer, picked me up from under my arms, and sat me on his lap. He gently placed the knife in my hand and then held my wrists. He moved with me as if we were whittling the stick together. After a while, he let go and I kept going. He placed his hand on my shoulder. Then, there was a bang and a crash.

I shot up and rubbed my eyes. The noise came from Momma and Daddy’s room. I crept out of bed with my sword gripped tightly in my hand. Pushing the door open, I tip-toed across the creaky, dark wood floor. The rooms looked different in the dark. Shadows moved over the walls. They danced through the kitchen and played in the dining room. Moonlight lit parts of the house I normally missed; corners full of dangling cobwebs, and walls covered in dirt. The dust was clearer in the moonlight. It floated across windows and stuck to the ceiling, my clothes—anything it could find.

A dim light shone from underneath their bedroom door. I walked towards it. Muffled voices interrupted the silence of the night. I heard her crying.

“Momma,” I whispered.

There was no reply. I touched the tip of my sword to the door and pushed softly. It inched open and the light from the room flooded the house. They were lying on the floor. Dad was on top of Momma, pressing her arms into the hard, wood floor. As he pushed harder, the floor creaked and cracked. The light from the lantern by their side, cast unnatural shadows on the walls. Dad looked up at me. His pupils were coal black, except for the orange glow of the flame.

“Out!” he yelled.

“Jed, go,” Momma said.

My heart raced; sweat dripped off the tip of my nose. My breath felt heavy and slow. I clenched the sword in my right hand and charged towards them. Nothing was more important than protecting Momma. Dad let go of her arms and sat up straight, his eyes on me, unblinking. I reeled back my arms and swung with all my strength. With a booming crack, the sword smashed into Dad’s face. My sword splintered, throwing chunks of wood across the room. A puff of dirt, sweat, and dust flew off him. He fell to the side and thudded to the floor. Momma got up and put herself in front of me. She struggled to catch her breath.

Dad was on the floor holding his head. Blood dripped through his fingers. He sat up, looked at Momma, then his eyes drifted to me. He tried to stand but stumbled and fell onto one knee. A trickle of blood ran down his brow. His breath was heavy. His eyes never left us. Momma held me behind her with one arm. With the other, she picked up the broken pieces of my sword and threw them to the side.

I stood stiff as a statue, unable to move. Dad got to his feet. He stumbled a bit, then Momma stepped up to make sure he didn’t fall. She barely had time to grasp his arm before he pulled sharply away.

“No,” he said.

He looked dazed as if the world was spinning around him. He held the edge of the bed for support. His red eyes met mine. With one hand, he held onto the bed, and with the other he softly pulled Momma aside. His gaze never left me as he approached. I wanted to run but couldn’t. I stood, unblinking, until he was a foot in front of me. The smell of the dirty water lingered on his breath. His dusty hand reached out and gripped my shoulder. I winced at the pain. He pulled me to his right, out of the way.

He walked past me out the door into the hall. I heard the front door open and close. The rocking chair creaked. Momma walked over and sat on the bed, cupping her face in her hands. I walked to her and rubbed her arms gently. She looked up at me and gave me a weak smile.

Then, she ushered me to bed. I was scared Dad would come back inside and get angry about what happened, but I went to bed anyway. When I got to my room, I pulled the heavy, old, wooden chair to my door and blocked it, just in case. I stood by my window and peeped through the slit in the wooden planks, watching him. He rocked back and forth, holding his head. Small splotches of blood on his shirt shone under the lantern light. On the other side of him stood a half-full bottle of dirty water. After a while of rocking, he opened it, got up, and leaned against the railing. He looked down at the bottle, sloshed the dark liquid around, and took a sip. Suddenly, he reeled back and threw the bottle across the field into the darkness.

He clenched his fists and his jaw quivered. He sniffled and his breathing shook for a while. Then, he turned around towards the chair, and I ducked. When I looked back up, he was gone. He walked into the night with the lantern; a single star lighting up the darkness. I pulled the heavy chair away from the door, opened it, and walked through the hallway to the front door. I took a scarf off the coat rack and wrapped it around my face in case the dust started up. My hand rested on the cold doorknob, and I hesitated. Then, I took a deep breath and turned it.

The night air bit my skin. It was dark, but I could still see Dad with the light not too far ahead. I walked down the stairs and stepped out into the dirt. It crunched beneath my feet. That morning’s attack from the dust monster left remnants floating in the air, whipping with the wind. With the light from Dad’s lantern, I saw the barn ahead of him. When he entered the barn, I was left in the pitch black. I walked towards where I knew the barn to be, heart pounding. The wind whistled as it swirled around my head, pelting any exposed skin with dust. I ran, thinking I wasn’t going to make it to the barn.

As I ran, my foot caught something heavy, and I tumbled to the ground. Dirt puffed up all around me, entering my eyes, nose, and mouth, making me cough and spit. Reaching out, I felt for what had tripped me. My hand brushed the side of it. It was cold and hard. I knew immediately it was the tire of Dad’s big tractor. I moved my hand higher and felt the rusted steel. Paint chipped off with every stroke of my hand. I hadn’t ridden it since the Dust Monster came. When it was new, the tractor was painted a vibrant red that shone in the sunlight. Dad used to take me out when he harvested the wheat. As I sat on his lap, he held me tight with one arm and drove with the other. One time, the last harvest before the dust, he even let me drive. Instead of wrapping his arm around me to hold me in place, he took my hands and placed them on the wheel. Terrified, I looked back at him. He gave me a soft smile and nodded. I took a deep breath then drove. I watched as the stalks of wheat fell behind the tractor, chopped by the harvester.

I used the top of the tire to pull myself up off the ground, then brushed my clothes off. I knew the tractor was near the barn, so I figured I was close. With my hands out in front of me, I walked slowly to avoid running into anything else. Before long, my fingertips touched the wooden exterior of the barn. I slid my hand to the left until it met the door, then pushed it open, and went inside.

It was as dark inside as out. A faint light shone in the loft above me. I heard what sounded like scraping and chopping. I climbed the ladder carefully, afraid of what I might find. Dad sat in the corner, surrounded by a pile of wood. His lantern sat next to him. The fire from it lit one side of his worn face. Sweat covered his brow and cheeks. The droplets slid down his face, carrying dirt and dust, weaving in and out of his wrinkles. With every movement he made, dust flew off, each speck caught by the lantern light. Sawdust and shavings covered his lap and arms.

In his right hand was a knife. In his left, an old broom handle.

I watched him whittle the wood.